One in Six
by GreyShadeOfQuietMouseColour
Summary: And then he heard it, the scrape of the revolver against the wood of the table, and Vladimir could picture his brother picking it up, weighing it in his hand for a second and grinning with confidence, real or pretend. He heard the spin of the cylinder, the noise echoing on for what felt like forever and his breath caught in his chest...


It was the moment when the silent bartender got out the plastic sheeting and spread it out under the table as a drop cloth that Vladimir realised that this had been Timur's plan all along.

The evening had started as expected with poker and vodka in the small, badly lit room behind Yury's bar. Vladimir, too young to participate but tolerated for his brother's sake, had been banished into a dark corner, far from the pool of dim lamplight casting its glow over the players at the table. From here he had sat silently brooding and watched as events unfolded.

Timur was the criminal authority that Anatoly and Vladimir's father had worked for. At sixty, everyone new that in the next few years he would be looking for a successor. And most people's choice fell on Anatoly, fairly young at twenty-three, but with the skill, ruthlessness and intelligence to make up for it. There were only a few other possibilities and all of them, Vladimir observed, were here tonight. Which begged the question: _why?_ Why did Timur want to gather all his potential successors into one room at the same time?

And then Timur had suggested it and everything had made sense. It had been a seemingly spur-of-the-moment decision, a whim of his. But fourteen year-old Vladimir, sitting in his quiet corner, had seen the glint in his eye as he suggested it. This was some sort of test. To test their bravery? And it was far from spontaneous. This was why Anatoly and the others had been called here tonight. This was the reason why.

And now here he was, watching Yury spread out a drop cloth and clenching his fists on the book in his lap, refusing to show any signs of weakness. He knew Timur was watching him out of the corner of his eye and he knew his behaviour reflected on his brother. He would not show any feeling. He would not let Anatoly down.

Anatoly, who was pointedly not looking at him. But Vladimir could tell by the set of his shoulders, by the way his gaze avoided Vladimir's corner, that he wanted to. He could only guess what Anatoly wanted to tell him, but he knew his brother well enough to be fairly sure of the accuracy of that guess. _It's alright, Volodya. I have to do this._ _Don't let them see you're worried._ So Vladimir turned the page of the book he was no longer reading and glanced up at what was happening with feigned disinterest.

The light from the dimmed lamp glinted off the barrel of the revolver as Timur loaded the single round, his attention now wholly on the five men seated at the table around him. Vladimir heard the sound of the revolver being replaced on the table like a gunshot in the silence. He could have heard a pin drop. The tension in the air was palpable and terrifying, the silence almost a noise of its own. And all the while Yury stood waiting patiently and covering up his furniture with plastic sheeting as if this happened every day. Perhaps it did.

Seemingly for the first time in ages, someone spoke. It was Timur. And as he spoke, he drew an envelope from his inside pocket. "In case luck fails me, here are my instructions. They will be followed." And he threw it down on the table. "Who is willing to start?" Followed by a statement rather than a question: "Tolyan."

Vladimir felt Anatoly's nickname like a kick in the stomach. It made him feel sick. And he couldn't look up from his book, couldn't look worried, couldn't show weakness, now more than ever. And then he heard it, the scrape of the revolver against the wood of the table and Vladimir could picture his brother picking it up, weighing it in his hand for a second and grinning with confidence, real or pretend. He heard the spin of the cylinder, the noise echoing on for what felt like forever and his breath caught in his chest. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, everything in him screaming to snatch the gun from Anatoly's hand, but he mustn't, wouldn't, move a muscle. Then the click of the cylinder being locked back in and Vladimir's world stood still and he realised that what he felt was not fear. It was fury he felt raging through his veins. This was not how it happened. He was not going to lose his brother like this, on the whim of a madman.

Finally Vladimir looked up. Too late. Too late to stop Anatoly. He had meant to cry out but there was no time. Vladimir was forced to watch, helpless, as his brother's finger tightened on the trigger. His heart stood still and the book almost slid from his own nerveless, numb fingers.

But all there was was a click. A tiny, insignificant click. And the tension in Vladimir shattered into a million pieces and he had to look down at his book to not let it show on his face as he fought back tears of anger and relief.

And Anatoly was laughing under his breath, not relieved, as if he had known all along, and passing the gun to the man on his right. He was laughing and Vladimir had never been so furious with him. He didn't care that he understood why Anatoly had done it. He knew why, and it made no difference. How dare he? The blood hammered in his veins and he felt the desire to scream and punch something, like the small child he no longer was, but was forced to content himself with screwing up the pages of his book and grinding his teeth.

Whirr, click. Whirr, click. Whirr, click. And so the game continued, Vladimir fuming in his corner and trying not to let anyone see. Angry tears clouded his vision and he lost count of the number of times the gun was passed.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, the bang.

Vladimir cricked his neck, so fast did he look up to see who had died. And there was Anatoly, standing up and wiping flecks of blood off his jacket, and nothing else mattered. Anatoly was safe and Vladimir was going to kill him when they got home.

Standing up and strolling casually over as if nothing had happened and by the time he had got there, Yury had wrapped the body up in the plastic sheeting and was dragging it away. Timur. It was Timur who had died, playing his own game, and Vladimir felt a rush of vicious satisfaction. The man had got what he deserved.

Hands still numb, he clapped Anatoly on the shoulder. A casual gesture, when he felt anything but casual and his brother knew it. But there would be time for that later and at the moment everyone's focus was on the envelope Timur had showed them before this game of chance started. It said one word: Anatoly. Even without any explanation they, to a man, knew what it meant. Anatoly was to succeed Timur.

Despite himself, Vladimir could not help but feel a rush of pride. It was the achievement of a goal Anatoly had told him about since he was small. He had dreamed of ruling the city with his brother, and now Vladimir knew that they would succeed. Together.

And as they stood there watching Yury mop up some of Timur's blood that had missed the plastic, Vladimir made himself a silent vow. He would never let anyone take his brother away from him, would never again sit helplessly by while Anatoly's life was in danger. They would protect each other, no matter the cost. Always.


End file.
